He’s been busy and I have too, but I fear that because we didn’t verbally define that we’re now boyfriend and girlfriend, I misread the situation. There was no contract, no signatures. We didn’t shake hands. Sure, we kissed, but it’s not lost on me that he didn’tsay Will you be my girlfriend? It would be easyenough a situation to fix, but what if I’m wrong, or what if having a relationship status conversation stresses him out? He’s already under a ton of pressure right now.
Since my parents’ phone call at the real estate meeting, something feels off. He’s still here—technically. I still see him when I walk the dogs, but I detect a distance now, like he reviewed the rules we made all those weeks ago, realized we broke them, and has gone back to basics.
Maybe I’m reading into things, but the buffalo in my stomach have gone quiet. That’s never a good sign.
I still text him the good news.
Me: I got the lease approval!
I’m now walking the dogs—he’s at the Ice Palace—when he finally replies.
Clark: That’s amazing! Congrats. Sorry, busy with practice and PT. Talk later.
My chest sinks. Best friend Clark would’ve typedLet’s celebrateorI’m so proud of you.
Clark, who said he had feelings for me, just wroteTalk later.
Right now, this should be a full-on confetti feeling. Instead, it’s like the one thing that matters is slipping away.
I don’t hear from him again until he sends me some forwarded info from Whitaker about the final Love at First Wag campaign event. It’s scheduled for this weekend in Kansas City, which is only a few hours away. It’s a big adoption fair with tons of media coverage—a whole production. It’s supposed to be our victory lap—the successful fake-dating couple who helped dozens of dogsfind homes.
Except we’re not fake dating anymore.
Or are we?
I honestly don’t know what we are right now.
On Thursday afternoon, I let myself into Clark’s apartment to walk the dogs. He’s at practice, as per usual, which means I have the place to myself for at least an hour. The dogs greet me with their usual enthusiasm—Moose trying to climb into my arms, Scout herding me toward the leash hooks, Buster doing his shimmy-wiggle, and Purdy and Lulu dancing circles around my feet.
At least someone is happy to see me.
I’m clipping on leashes when I hear Clark’s voice from the bedroom. He must have come home early. I’m surprised he didn’t poke his head out when the dogs made their usual racket.
But my heart gets a little helium blast like a hot air balloon—maybe we can finally talk about whatever is happening between us. Or not talk. That’s fine too. Perhaps I’ve been in my head and things will just be normal, but I wouldn’t know because we’ve hardly seen each other—no late-night texts, memes, or video reels of dogs doing funny things.
Then, through the door, I hear Whitaker’s voice on the tinny speaker of Clark’s phone.
I should announce myself and make noise so they know I’m here. Instead, I freeze when I hear my name. The next bit is garbled because of the dogs.
Then Whitaker’s voice carries to my ears. “I’m just saying, once the campaign is over this weekend, things can go back to normal. You can focus on the playoffs without all the extra pressure.”
“Yeah.” Clark’s voice sounds tired. “I can’t wait for this to be over.”
The leashes slip from my hands.
He can’t wait for this to be over.
For us to be over?
“The media attention has been intense,” Whitaker continues. “But you’ve handled it like a pro. Both of you did.”
I should leave. Should grab the dogs and get out before Clark realizes I’m here.
But my feet won’t move.
“So what’s the plan after Kansas City?” Whitaker asks.
“I don’t know, man. Just taking it one day at a time. See what happens.”
